


but how they left always stays

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 22:30:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11114223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: He knows very little when it comes to women, and comfort, and comforting women, so a weeping woman leaves him lost and confused at best, terrified at worst.





	but how they left always stays

**Author's Note:**

> So truth be told Benvolio is my favourite Shakespearean male character and I have a case of The Feels TM when it comes to him. Also Lashana is beautiful and I'm in love with her. Also, unrequited pining because I know what I'm about.

He wakes up to cold sheets and deep dissatisfaction.

It takes Benvolio’s mind a few second to clear and get his bearings, not quite yet used to the bedroom that is now his – theirs. This one is much different from the one he used to sleep in, and not just from the size of the bed. Everything is bigger, walls stretching, comfortable loveseat next to the window, vanity beneath a large mirror. It is more than Benvolio has ever owned before, and it makes him uncomfortable at best.

But not as uncomfortable as waking up cold and wanting.

Three weeks of this nonsense, sleeping above the covers not to get slapped in the face by his feisty wife – she had tried to force him onto the floor at first, but Benvolio had put his foot down. He may compromise to a lot of things, as far as this dreadful marriage is involved, but he will not break his back when a perfectly comfortable and perfectly big mattress can accommodate the both of them.

So above the covers he sleeps, careful never to brush against her during the night, careful not to let her warmth tantalize him. Three weeks without his nightly visits to the whore house, too, because Benvolio is nothing if loyal – even loyal to a wife who despises him. The last thing he wants is to make this troublesome situation even worse for her and her already fragile reputation, even if he can’t quite explain why.

Perhaps he grew fond of her after all. Her who stands by the window, draped in moonlight, arms wrapped around her own waist and hair tumbling down her back. The sleeve of her nightgown falls down her arm, leaving one shoulder bare – the onyx of her skin polished into softness that his fingers long to caress, the expanse of her neck that his lips yearn to taste. She is a beautiful woman, and even he can admit it despite his hatred of her family.

“Come back to bed,” he tells her at last, voice heavy with sleep but lacking the usual sarcasm he saves for her. “The lark is not even singing yet.”

A sob escapes her, so soft yet present in the ever silent atmosphere of their bedroom. She doesn’t need saying more for Benvolio to fully awake and sit up in bed, frowning at her. He knows very little when it comes to women, and comfort, and comforting women, so a weeping woman leaves him lost and confused at best, terrified at worst. They might not be the best of friends, not even lovers, but it doesn’t mean Benvolio wishes her to be upset – especially over words he thought to be harmless.

“Rose…” he murmurs as he stands up and moves closer to her. She tightens her hold on her own body, while his hand hovers over her shoulder without touching her. Even in this state, she wouldn’t allow it. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Go back to bed.”

Her eyes are dark and wet when they finally meet his – not the heartbroken air to them when she’s longingly gazing at the Prince and when Benvolio wonders why it maddens him so. No, it is something less, something more, and he understands the depth of her sorrow when Juliet’s name escapes her lips in yet another sob.

“She loved the songs of the lark in the morning.”

Benvolio’s nose twitches a little, but his eyes ran out of tears weeks ago. Barely a month has passed since his brothers’ deaths, since he buried them and said his goodbyes and turned to alcohol and women, and this headache of a marriage he never wanted. Loneliness had never been a problem to Benvolio until Romeo was gone, until he couldn’t hear Mercutio’s laugh in a tavern, until his two and only friends went to a place he couldn’t follow. He misses them, so much it hurts, so much so he wonders how he is supposed to go on when they are gone.

“I miss them too,” he admits – words he can only confess with shadows around him, with his face hidden by darkness and her eyes full of tears.

He wants to tell her it is his fault – that he wished to distract Romeo from her, of all people, from his juvenile unrequited love for a Capulet servant, and only managed to make it worse with a ball and promises of fun at the expense of their enemy. Never would he have believed that it would lead to Romeo falling for another woman, and falling to his own demise.

Oh, if Benvolio had known, all the harm such a silly party would make.

He does not tell Rosaline such things, though, neither does he hold and comfort her. Instead, he awkwardly stands in front of her, waiting for the tears in her eyes to dry and for his lady wife to go back to her usual snarky self. He never thought he would miss that part of her, and yet here he is – and perhaps, truth be told, he doesn’t resent that part of her as much as he shows, or would like. It is almost endearing, when she goes out of her way to look frustrated and annoyed, how she always carefully chooses her words for them to sting and hurt and make him roll his eyes at her antics.

“Go back to bed,” he urges her once more, when minutes have passed and she still hasn’t said a word. Rosaline glares back at him, hatred mixed with something else – as if looking for a trick behind his words, as if always on the defensive when it comes to him. It is exhausting, truth be told – as much as Benvolio resents the Capulets, and everything they represent, he wonders how much longer he will have to dance around not to be at the receiving end of his wife’s wrath. How much longer until she finally agrees to put her guards down, if only for a few minutes, if only for a short conversation.

He does so wonder if she is as witty when pleased as she is when upset, how easy she could make him laugh, what he could do to get a smile out of her. (He does so wonder which sounds of pleasure she makes, if her skin really is as soft as it looks, and which spot on her neck is the most sensible.) (He wonders, this and so much more.)

With one last squint of her teary eyes, Rosaline finally turns around and walks back to their bed. She wraps herself in the blankets, her back to him, so purposefully ignoring his very presence that Benvolio wonders if he is even allowed to go back and sit by her side. Soon, people will expect of them to produce an heir, a child who is equally Capulet and Montague, a child who will be more of a peace token than their own person.

Soon, oh so soon, but Benvolio didn’t lie to his uncle – he will not have Rosaline without her consent. Perhaps he will never have her at all, then, and what a shame it would be. Barely a month has gone, and yet, and yet.

Barely a month, and she is always on his mind.


End file.
